And to destroy the Dome of the Rock, to desecrate such a holy shrine as this, and place blame on the Jews for the atrocity, would be to light a quick-burning fuse that would see the apocalyptic prophecy of the Bible fulfilled. Israel and the Muslim world would be at war. The USA would inevitably get involved, standing with Israel. The call to arms would sound across the entire Islamic word. The great Jihad that fundamentalist Muslims had been waiting for would finally have dawned. Global conflict.
In a world tearing itself apart in blood and chaos, tens of millions of evangelical Christians would flock to the only leaders they felt they could trust. Meanwhile, events like 9/11 would become a daily occurrence. And worse, much worse. Ben remembered Clayton Cleaver’s prediction of nuclear war, and an icy tingle ran down his back.
It was a Doomsday scenario, and the clock was ticking faster than he could think.
Now it had to be stopped – and it was completely down to him.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Ben thundered down the stairs, burst out into the hot sun and sprinted up the street. Passers-by saw him coming, a wild man covered in blood, running like the wind, and threw themselves out of his way. His running footsteps pounded in the narrow streets.
As he ran he snatched a glimpse at his watch. Six forty-two.
Eighteen minutes.
On he sprinted, his breath rasping as he traced a winding path north through cobbled streets and alleys, scattering people aside as he went. He rounded a corner, glancing about him to get his bearings. Up ahead the street was filled with market stalls and shops and crowds of locals and visitors. Taxis and cars were honking their horns as they crawled through the bustle. A motorcyclist on a tall BMW trail bike revved his engine impatiently as he waited for a bunch of tourists to get out of his way.
Ben ran up behind the bike. The rider was wearing a backpack with shoulder straps. Ben grabbed a strap and hauled the motorcyclist off his machine, sending him tumbling to the ground. Before the BMW could fall on its side he grasped the handlebars, threw a leg over the saddle, stamped into gear and opened the throttle. The BMW surged forward with an aggressive roar, and the crowd quickly dispersed to let him through. He raced up the winding market street, throwing the machine left and right, skidding between stalls and scattering startled pedestrians.
In his head he was counting seconds and measuring distances. The Old City was a small area of Jerusalem, its four quarters crammed into a space only two kilometres across at its widest point. The Dome of Rock was situated only five hundred yards or so from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where he’d been standing earlier.
Ben raced on, riding wildly through markets and traffic, rattling over cobbles. Suddenly there was the howl of a police siren behind him. Flashing lights in his mirrors. There was a low wall edging the street to his right. A gap in the wall. A steep flight of stone steps leading upwards between craggy ancient houses. He threw the machine into a skid, twisting the bars. The front tyre hit the steps with a juddering bang that almost spilled him off. The tortured engine screamed as he hammered the bike up the steps.
The police car had disappeared in his mirror, but already he could hear the sirens in the distance, at least two or three, converging on his position.
A sign flashed by for Batei Mahasse Street. He was heading the right way. But then he looked back in the mirror and saw more flashing lights. Two police cars, gaining fast.
Suddenly a bunch of children burst out of a doorway and ran out in front of him. He swerved to avoid them, lost control and the BMW smashed into a shop front. He sprawled to the ground. The police cars skidded to a halt. Cops burst out, running towards him. He staggered to his feet, punched the nearest one and knocked him down. A second grabbed at his arm. Ben kicked him in the groin. Before the guy even started screaming, Ben was running.
Six forty-nine.
Eleven minutes.
But he was getting close now. Up ahead he could see the entrance to the huge esplanade leading to the Wailing Wall on the edge of the Jewish Quarter. The spectacular Dome of the Rock rose up beyond, the sun glittering off its gold roof.
Voices were yelling behind him, sirens wailing. He threw a glance behind him as he ran. More police were giving chase. He reached the Wailing Wall and sprinted along its side, scattering a crowd of robed clergymen.
Up ahead was the Moor’s Gate, the only way for non-Muslims to get into the Temple Mount complex. Ben ran through, past the ticket kiosk, barging through crowds of tourists. People yelled at him, then shrank away when they saw the blood on his clothes. Now he was sprinting across the vast paved esplanade of the Temple Mount, towards the Dome of the Rock itself. His lungs were burning and he felt as though his legs were about to give out any second. He willed himself to keep moving.
The huge building loomed up above him, its octagonal walls faced with blue marble and magnificent Koranic inscriptions and artwork. Crowds of Muslim worshippers were congregating outside the vast mosque, a buzz of excited veneration in the air.
Behind him, Ben could hear the shouts of the police as they battled through the crowd. He stole away, moving deeper in amongst the jostling throng. His mind was racing, heart thudding fast. The crowd of worshippers was filtering inside the building. Things were about to begin. The Muslim dignitaries were inside.
Four minutes.
He whirled round, glancing wildly in all directions. The bomb could be anywhere. It could be strapped to the body of any one of a thousand people all around him. It could have been planted weeks ago, waiting for a remote signal to set it off.
He imagined the magnificent building suddenly split apart by high explosive. Its noble golden dome spewing flame and debris as everything inside was torn to pieces. The fireball rolling into the blue sky above Jerusalem. The tower of black smoke signalling for miles around that something cataclysmic had just occurred.
Three minutes.
There was no chance of stopping it now.
That was the moment when he spotted the face in the crowd. It belonged to a Westerner, a small man in a light jacket and casual trousers. A leather bag hung from a strap over his shoulder. He could have been any one of a million tourists.
But Ben never forgot a face, and this one had been branded on his memory since Corfu.
His mind flashed back in a blur. The man with the laptop at the café terrace. The same sharp features. The same empty, impassive eyes. It was him. The bomber. Charlie’s killer.
Ben shoved his way through the crowd towards him. The police were just twenty yards behind. He broke into a run. A woman screamed.
The bomber saw him. His eyes narrowed for an instant, and then he was gone, dashing away through the heaving throngs of people.
Two minutes.
Ben was running like he’d never run in his life, past smaller domes and ancient buildings. Down a flight of smooth, uneven stone steps that led to a labyrinth of massive pillars and arches. Ahead of him, the bomber was a flitting figure, darting through arches and cloistered alleyways, turning left and then right, people diving out of his path as he ran.
But Ben was slowly gaining on him. The clap of their racing footsteps echoed off the ancient stonework.
One minute.
Then he saw the man was reaching into the leather bag. Something in his hand. A small black rectangular shape. Remote detonator. He was punching the keys as he ran.
Entering a numerical code.
Ben’s blood froze in his veins. He reached behind the hip of his jeans, and from under the bloodied shirt he drew out the bearded assassin’s pistol. He fired. The bomber ducked low. The shot sang off a pitted stone wall. People screamed and yelled in alarm.
Then the bomber was darting down another alley, archways leading off in all directions. Ben was keeping him in sight, but only just. He couldn’t lose him, not for an instant, or he could finish entering the code. Then he only had to hit a SEND key and it was over.
Hundreds would die, maybe thousands. Then more, a lot more.
Far away, Irving Slater sat in the back seat of a speeding limo and watched the hand on the gold watch count down the last few seconds to glory. He leaned back against the leather and smiled.
‘Show time,’ he said aloud.
Chapter Sixty-Three
The bomber dived through a crumbling stone arch, running flat out, the device in his hand.
Then suddenly he was cartwheeling through the air with a loud grunt of pain and surprise as the moped coming the other way knocked him off his feet.
Ben came skidding out of the archway just in time to see the bomber go sprawling across the narrow street in a tangle of arms and legs. The scooter crashed down on its side and slithered in a shower of sparks. The rider tumbled and rolled. The black detonation device went bouncing across the paving stones.
There was blood on the bomber’s face. His teeth were bared in pain and concentration as he went crawling after the fallen device. Ben watched in horror from ten yards away as his trembling hand reached out for the tiny keypad. Then his fingers were closing around the device, dragging it towards him.
Ben dived at him and punched him hard in the head. He punched him again. The man’s head lolled, spitting blood. Ben grabbed for his fingers, wrestling the thing out of his grasp.
There was a sharp yell from behind. Ben turned. A young cop was standing three yards away, panting hard, pistol wavering, sweat on his face. He motioned with the gun. Ben could see in his eyes that he was scared. Scared, but serious. He screamed a command in Hebrew.
Ben raised his hands, slowly rising to his feet.
The young cop flicked the gun towards the bomber.
But the bomber just smiled. He sat up in the dust and cocked his thumb over the SEND key.
The sequence was complete. One key-stroke and the world was going to change irrevocably.
Ben moved faster than he’d ever moved before. His elbow hit the young cop’s face at the same time that he was already grabbing for the pistol. The shot was completely instinctive. He didn’t aim.
The bullet hit the bomber’s hand in a mist of red, blowing off half his fingers. The shattered detonator dropped to the ground.
The bomber kneeled there, nursing his damaged hand, staring up at Ben open-mouthed. ‘Who are you?’ he croaked.
‘Nobody,’ Ben said. Then he shot him in the head.
Chapter Sixty-Four
‘Then it’s over,’ said Murdoch. ‘You honoured your end of the deal.’
Ben was sitting on the edge of his bed in the Jerusalem hotel, feeling for a part of his body that didn’t hurt. ‘And now you’ll honour yours,’ he said. He didn’t want to mention Callaghan and Slater to Murdoch. He had his own plans for them.
‘I always keep my word,’ Murdoch said. ‘We’ll take care of everything. As for you, you’re a free man. You were never here. I never even heard your name.’
The next call to make was to Alex. Ben used the number she’d called him from at Callaghan’s house. He prayed she’d answer. That she was all right.
After a dozen rings, he started at the sound of her voice.
When she heard his, she burst out crying.
‘I’m coming back,’ he told her. ‘Meet me at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC tomorrow afternoon, one o’clock.’
* * *
He stood for a long time under a hot shower, washing away the blood and the dirt and the memories of the day. Then he grabbed his things and checked out. He made the airport in forty minutes, and within a couple of hours he was boarding a flight for Washington.
It wasn’t over yet.
Washington DC
The nineteenth day
He was back on US soil at midday. He made his way to the heart of DC and sat on the warm stone steps at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. Sunlight danced on the clear surface of the ornamental lake that stretched out in front of him. Beyond that stood the obelisk of the Washington Memorial, and beyond that, all in a straight line, the Capitol dome and seat of the US Senate.
There was no sign of Alex yet. He took out his phone, thinking about the two calls he had to make. The first was to Augusta Vale.
She sounded happy to hear from him.
‘Sorry I had to disappear like that,’ he said. ‘Something came up.’
‘I still have reporters calling me, wanting to know about the mystery shooter who stole the prize and vanished.’
‘I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality.’
‘Think nothing of it, Benedict. Any time you’re passing through Savannah, you must give me a call. You will always be a most welcome guest in my home. And if there’s anything I can do for you…’
‘There is one thing. Do you have Reverend Cleaver’s number? I’d like to order a few copies of his book.’
‘Why, I’m sure he would be overjoyed to hear from you again,’ she said.
Ben dialled the number she’d given him. Cleaver sounded nervous when his secretary passed him the phone.
‘How are you, Clayton?’
‘Fine,’ Cleaver replied warily.
‘And a hundred million dollars richer?’
‘The money came through two days ago,’ Cleaver said, sounding puzzled. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Intuition,’ Ben said. ‘And I’m calling you to make a deal.’
Cleaver gulped audibly. ‘A deal? What kind of deal?’
‘Don’t panic, Clayton. I’m not going to take your money. Not all of it, anyway.’
‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘Yes, it is. So here are my terms. They aren’t negotiable. Ready?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘First, you’re going to donate a quarter of that money straight back to the Vale Trust, for the new children’s wing.’
‘Of course, I’d already thought –’ Cleaver blustered. ‘But twenty-five per cent?’
‘That’s the deal,’ Ben said. ‘Here’s the next part. I imagine once you’ve paid off the loan sharks you’re going to want to refurnish your place. Your walls still bare?’
‘Y-y-yes,’ Cleaver stammered. ‘But what –’
‘There’s a talented young modern artist in Oxford, England. Her name’s Lucy Wilde. I want you to check out her website.’
‘What the hell has that to do with me?’
‘You’re about to become a patron of the arts, Clayton. You’re going to buy up every piece of art she has for sale, and you’re going to offer her a handsome commission for more. And I’ll be checking, in case your definition of handsome is too different from mine.’
‘This is nuts,’ Cleaver protested. ‘I don’t even like modern art.’
‘Get a taste for it,’ Ben said. ‘Now here’s part three. A farmer in Montana needs some spare cash to renovate his property. Someone shot the place up a little bit. He also needs a new truck or two. I’ll be sending you his address and a bank account number to wire the money to.’
‘How much spare cash?’ Cleaver asked suspiciously.
‘Nice round figure,’ Ben said. ‘Call it a million dollars.’
There was a wheezing gasp on the other end. ‘You’re killing me, Ben.’
‘I thought about that option. But I prefer this way. Are you ready to hear the next part of the terms?’
‘Go on,’ Cleaver said wearily.
‘Good. There’s a certain Georgia lawyer who needs an operation to fix his legs.’
Cleaver exploded. ‘McClusky? You want me to pay off McClusky?’
‘That’s right,’ Ben said. ‘Some setting-up money wouldn’t be a bad idea either, to help him open up a new practice and get started again. How about three hundred grand? Wait, let’s make it five hundred.’
Silence on the other end.
‘One more thing I want from you,’ Ben said. He paused. This was the part that mattered most to him. ‘I want a trust fund set up. One million pounds sterling.’
‘For who?’ Cleaver snorted. ‘You?’
He’d given it a lot of thought. He knew there was no way Rhonda would ever forgive him for what had happened, no way he could ever explain things to her. What could he do? Go making excuses, write her a note? But at least he could do this for Charlie’s kid.
‘I hope I’m making myself very clear,’ he said.
‘Oh, I understand,’ Cleaver muttered. ‘But what if I don’t feel like going along with this generous business deal of yours?’
‘I’ll be watching you, Clayton. You’ll find I’m not as forgiving as the loan sharks. I really don’t want to have to shatter Miss Vale’s illusions about you – but if I see you’re not doing what I want, rest assured I’ll be letting her know what a big huckster you are. Not only that, I’ll be on the first flight over there and by the time I’m finished you’ll be hard to tell from roadkill. And I always keep my promises.’
‘Now I suppose you’re going to tell me I have to fork out another ten million to that goddamn Zoë Bradbury,’ Cleaver groaned.
‘No, you can keep that money. I don’t think Zoë Bradbury deserves another cent from you or anyone else.’
There was a long silence on the line as Cleaver mulled over the terms. ‘I don’t have much leeway here, do I?’
The Doomsday Prophecy Page 33